


of all the gin joints

by onekisstotakewithme



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Airports, Ambiguous Relationships, Canon-Typical Drinking, Casablanca References, Episode: s11e16 Goodbye Farewell and Amen, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekisstotakewithme/pseuds/onekisstotakewithme
Summary: As it turns out, Hawkeye doesn’t see BJ back in the States.It doesn’t take that long.
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	of all the gin joints

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daylight_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylight_angel/gifts).



As it turns out, Hawkeye  _ doesn’t  _ see BJ back in the States.

It doesn’t take that long.

Instead, Hawkeye, his world in two suitcases at his feet, finds BJ in a seedy airport bar in Hawaii.

A jukebox sits in a corner, spitting out a few broken chords here and there, and though the window is thrown open to the palm trees and breeze, the ceiling fan in the bar does little but circulate the hot air.

And there, with his back to Hawkeye, his dusty Chuck Taylors on the floor, is Hawkeye’s answer to Paradise.

It’s only been a few hours – maybe it’s the dust in the air – but Hawkeye’s eyes start watering, and he wonders how he’s ever supposed to stand living on the other side of the country from this man, when he used to get nervous if they weren’t in the same room.

To clear the lump in his throat, he just does his best Bogart. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world…”

BJ freezes, and then slowly turns around, a grin spreading across his face. “… you had to walk into mine.”

“Beej,” Hawkeye says relieved, and then he has to drop his bags to hug BJ, who’s bounded over like a faithful retriever, nearly lifting Hawk off the ground with enthusiasm.

“Hawk,” he murmurs into Hawkeye’s hair, arms around him, hand cupping the back of Hawk’s head so tenderly, and it must be so obvious, Jesus, Hawkeye is  _ gone  _ on this man.

“Excuse me, Bergman,” the bartender says dryly. “Were you wanting a drink?”

“Something tropical,” Hawkeye says when BJ releases him, glad he can breathe again. “And can you put a little cocktail umbrella in it?”

The bartender grins. “Uh huh.”

“Play it again, Sam,” BJ says, sliding his empty glass to the bartender as they sit down on the worn barstools, cracked vinyl wheezing under them, a faint breeze stirring the palms outside.

“Here you are, Bogey,” the bartender says, setting down the drinks. “A Mai Tai for you, and one for Ingrid.”

“Your Bogart needs work,” BJ tells him, before holding up his drink and giving Hawk a look that melts all the ice in his Mai Tai. “What’ll we drink to?”

“Paradise,” Hawk says, grinning back at him.

A steady pair of blue eyes meet him, and they’re probably not fooling the bartender, but a few hours from now, they’ll never see him again. “Paradise it is.”

They toast, and Hawk takes an eager gulp of his drink, the ice and booze like nectar on his dry throat.

“Now tell me,” BJ says, setting his drink down. “What are you doing here?”

“I stopped in for a ukulele lesson.”

“Seriously.”

“Well, after a long hot day going from Korea to Guam to here… and thanks to Uncle Sam not a drop of booze  _ or _ a pretty stewardess to break the monotony… some General decided to thank me for my service by bumping me off my flight.”

“Damn.”

“When I heard, I sat down on the tarmac and cried,” Hawkeye says ruefully, swirling his drink. “I keep expecting them to tell me it’s all a horrible mistake.”

“And the war’s not really over?” BJ asks, before smiling in self-deprecation. “I already got yanked back once, keep having to remind myself this time it’s for real.”

Hawk winces and downs the rest of his drink at the reminder.

It’s bittersweet, how much this reminds him of a different bar, a different tarmac waiting outside- BJ is still clean and pressed, Hawkeye is still tired and rumpled.

“It is real, isn’t it?” he asks, setting down his empty glass. “The war’s over.”

BJ nods. “We’re going home.”

“Not for a while yet,” Hawkeye says with a dramatic sigh, then perks up. “Hold the phone, central. Does that mean I’m on your flight?”

BJ nods, amused.

This does something soft and fluttery to Hawk’s heart, thinking how they don’t have to part just yet, there’s still time.

“I still can’t believe it,” he says quietly, instead of everything else he wants to say. “I’m not gonna wake up tomorrow looking up at canvas.”

“Not listening to Charles snore.”

“Or the PA.”

“Or seeing you,” BJ says, before shaking his head. “I can’t ever imagine feeling nostalgic for that place. Part of me wants to forget I was ever there.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

_ “But,”  _ BJ says with a soft smile. “I could never forget the people.”

“We’re pretty damn unforgettable,” Hawkeye says, smiling back. “Finest kind, dare I say.”

“Finest kind,” BJ agrees softly, holding his gaze.

“Attention, Attention, all personnel.” The voice on the PA isn’t Klinger’s, nor Radar’s, but they both snap to attention anyway. “The flight to San Francisco is now boarding.”

“They’re playing our song,” BJ says to Hawkeye, as they toss down money for the bartender, and pick up their bags.

“Ah well,” Hawkeye says with a mock-nostalgic sigh, “We’ll always have Korea.”


End file.
